*For those who once called themselves my sisters*
In their prettiest aesthetic vials
They sat and tête-à-tête’d.
Deriving pleasure from lost trials
Of others whose wounds they spread.
With their backs arched
And covered heads held high,
Knowing they’re beautifully cultured
Their purebred senses spy.
Aching to hear the next cry,
So they can lend their pretend hand
And aid with their perplexed “why”
For their entertainment, not to understand
Shrieking when it’s painfully comical,
Preaching silence when it’s morally topical,
Yet impersonating embodiment of the noble.
LIES! LIES! LIES! Scream – I shall!
If beauty is in this
In the face of humanity I hiss,
Far away from those “Perfect little Miss”
In my ugliness I am bliss’d.
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